by Nora Roberts
“Kissing you’s become a habit, Libby.” He circled her waist with his hand. “I’ve always had a hard time breaking habits.”
He was just trying to distract her, she thought. And he was doing an excellent job of it. “Pull yourself together,” she ordered. “Now we’ve found this . . . thing. You promised me an explanation. We both know very well that nothing like this is owned by a private citizen. Spill it, Hornblower.”
“It is mine,” he told her, still grinning. “Or it will be after ten more payments.” He pressed a button to open the hatch. Libby’s mouth dropped open as a door lifted up silently. “Come on, I’ll show you the registration.”
Unable to resist, she walked up the two steps and into the cabin. It was as large as her living room and was dominated by a control panel. There were hundreds of colored buttons and levers in front of two high-backed black seats shaped like scoops.
“Have a seat,” he said.
Staying close to the open hatch, she rubbed her arms to ward off a sudden chill. “It’s, ah . . . dark in here.”
“Oh, yeah.” Crossing to a panel, he touched a switch. Libby let out a muffled shriek as the front of the craft opened. “I must have hit the shields when I started down.”
She could only stare. Before her were the forest, the distant mountains and the sky. Strong sunlight poured through. You could hardly call it a windshield when it spanned twenty feet.
“I don’t understand.” Because she needed to, she moved quickly to one of the chairs and sat. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“I felt the same way a couple of days ago.” Cal opened a compartment, scanned through some material, then took out a small, shiny card. “This is my pilot’s license, Libby. After you read it, take a nice long breath. It might help.”
His picture was in the corner. His grin was as attractive and disarming as it was in the flesh. The ID claimed that he was a United States citizen and licensed to pilot all A to F model ships. It listed his height as 185.4 cm, his weight as 70.3 kg. Hair black, eyes blue. And his birth date was . . . 2222.
“Oh, my God,” Libby whispered.
“You forgot to take that breath.” He closed a hand over hers on the card. “Libby, I’m thirty. When I left L.A. two months ago it was February, 2252.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Maybe, but it happened.”
“This is a trick.” She pushed the card back into his hand and sprang up. Her heart was racing so hard and fast that she could feel it vibrating between her temples. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but it’s all some kind of elaborate trick. I’m going home.”
She rushed toward the hatch just as the door closed. “Sit down, Libby. Please.” He saw the wild, trapped look in her eyes and forced himself not to step toward her. “I’m not going to hurt you. You know that. Just sit down, and listen.”
Because she was angry that she had tried to run, she walked stiffly back and sat down. “So?”
He sat opposite her, steepled his fingers and thought it all through. There were times, he supposed, when it was best to treat an abnormal situation as if it were normal. “You didn’t have any breakfast,” he said abruptly. Pleased with the inspiration, he opened a small door and took out a glossy silver pouch. “How about ham and eggs?” Without waiting for an answer, he swiveled, opened another door and tossed the pouch inside. He pushed a button, then sat smiling at her until a buzzer sounded. Taking a plate out of another compartment, he opened the door and scooped out a heap of steaming eggs loaded with chunks of ham.
Libby locked her icy hands in her lap. “You’re full of tricks.”
“No trick. Irradiation. Come on, taste.” He held the plate under her nose. “They’re not as good as yours, but they’ll do in a pinch. Libby, you have to believe what’s in front of your eyes.”
“No.” Very slowly, she shook her head from side to side. “I don’t think I do.”
“Not hungry?”
She shook her head again, more firmly this time. With a shrug, Cal plucked a fork from a drawer and dug in.
“I know how you feel.”
“No, you don’t.” She took his advice, belatedly, and sucked in three long breaths. “You’re not sitting in what looks like a spaceship having a conversation with a man who claims to be from the twenty-third century.”
“No, but I’m sitting in my ship talking to a woman who’s a couple of centuries older than I am.”
She blinked at that, then found laughter—only slightly hysterical—bubbling out. “This is ludicrous.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’m not saying I believe it.”
“Give it time.”
Her hand was no longer cold, but it was still unsteady when she pressed it to her head. “I need to think.”
“Fine.”
With a sigh, she sat back and studied him. “I’ll take that breakfast now.”
Chapter 6
The eggs were bland, but they were certainly hot. Irradiated, Libby thought as she took a second bite. She’d heard of the controversial process for preserving food. Still, it was a far cry from a microwave TV dinner.
Somehow she’d woken up in the middle of a science-fiction movie.
“I keep telling myself there has to be another explanation.”
Cal polished off his eggs. “Let me know if you find one.”
Dissatisfied, she set her plate aside. “If all this is real, you seem to be taking it very calmly.”
“I’ve had some time to get used to it. Are you going to eat the rest of that?”
She shook her head, then turned to stare through the clear shield. She saw a pair of elk meander into the trees about a hundred yards away. A beautiful sight, she mused. Beautiful, and normal here in the mountains of Oregon. If the elk had wandered down Fifth Avenue in Manhattan they would still have been beautiful, and they would still have been real. But, for reasons of basic geography, they wouldn’t have been normal.
There was no denying that Cal was real. Was it possible that he and his incredible vehicle were a perfectly normal sight in another place? In another time?
If it were true . . . if she allowed herself for just one moment to believe it . . . How must he feel? She looked at the elk again. They were standing in a patch of sunlight. Mustn’t he be feeling as confused and displaced as any animal taken out of its natural habitat and tossed into a strange world?
She remembered the panic she had seen on his face the day he’d come to her with a paperback novel. A novel published this year, Libby reflected. She’d dismissed his pallor, his dazed confusion, as the effects of his head injury. She’d discounted his odd questions and remarks the same way.
Now there was the ship—and no matter how far she stretched it she couldn’t call the vehicle a plane. If she accepted that it was real and not part of some strange, vivid dream, then she had to accept Cal’s story.
“‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,/ than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
“Hamlet.” He grinned at her quick, suspicious look. “We still read Shakespeare. Want some coffee?”
She shook her head. Dream or not, she needed answers. “You say you . . . bounced off a black hole?”
He smiled, immeasurably relieved. She believed him. Perhaps she didn’t fully realize it herself, but she believed him. “That’s right, or at least that’s what I think. I’m going to need my computer. My instruments went berserk when we hit the gravitational field, so I went to manual and managed to bank east. I remember the force. It must be what a fly feels like when someone gives it a good solid bat. I passed out. When I came to, I was free-falling toward Earth. I switched back to computer and thought my troubles were over.”
“That doesn’t explain how you ended up here—or should I say now.”
“There are a lot of theories. The one I lean toward deals with the space-time continuum. It’s like a curved bowl.” He cupped his palm to demonstrate. “Mathematically, the bowl isn’t space and it isn’t time. It’s a combination of both. Everything in it moves through space and time. Gravity’s the curve of the bowl, drawing everything down. Around the Earth it’s not much of a curve. You don’t really feel it unless you, say, fall off a cliff. But around the sun, and around a black hole . . .” He deepened the cup of his palm.
“And you’re saying you were caught in that curve?”
“Like a marble being spun around the lip of the bowl. And somewhere, somehow, along the spin, I was flicked off. The speed, the trajectory, sent me tunneling not just through space but through time.”
“It sounds almost plausible when you say it.”
“It’s the only theory I’ve got. Maybe if we look at it, it’ll sound more plausible.” Leaning forward, he turned a dial. “Computer.”
Yes, Cal.
Libby lifted a brow at the soft, sultry voice. “Since when do they make computers tall, blond and busty?”
He just grinned. “Intergalactic runs can be lonely. Computer, play back log date 02–05. On screen.”
Cal swiveled in his chair and leaned forward as a small viewing screen rose out of the console. Sound filled the cockpit. Impassive, he watched his own image flicker on. From her chair, Libby stared mesmerized, as the playback progressed. She could see him sitting precisely where he was sitting now. But there were lights flashing, buzzers sounding. While the cockpit vibrated, he reached up to secure a safety strap. She could see the sweat beading on his face as he fought the controls of the bucking ship.
“Widen image,” Cal commanded.
Then Libby saw what he had seen through the shield. There was the vastness of space, seductive and compelling. There were stars, clusters of them, and what was surely a distant planet. There was a blackness, an absolute blackness, that spread for miles. The ship seemed to be hurtling toward it.
She heard Cal swearing—or rather the image of Cal was swearing as he pulled on a lever. There was a sound, a screaming rip of metal that seemed to vibrate all around her. The cockpit began to roll, end over end, with sickening speed. And then the screen went blank.
“Damn it. Computer, continue playback.”
Memory banks damaged. No further playback possible.
“Terrific.” He started to command an analysis, but then he caught a glimpse of Libby. She was sitting limply in the chair beside his, her cheeks a dead white, her eyes glassy. “Hey.” He was up quickly and leaning over her. “Take it easy.” Cupping her face in his hands, he pressed his thumbs lightly on either side of her throat.
“It was like I was there.”
He cursed himself and took her icy hand in his to warm it. He had known better, Cal thought in disgust. But he had only been thinking of himself and his need to see what had happened. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It was horrible.” Whatever doubts she had harbored had vanished completely during the playback. Her fingers tightened convulsively on his as she looked up at him. “It’s all been horrible for you.”
“No.” He combed his fingers through her hair. “Not all.” Softly, gently, he touched his lips to hers, then skimmed them over her jaw. She reached a hand to his face, letting it linger while she gave and took the comfort.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to find a way back.”
She felt a pain, sharp and sudden. Of course he couldn’t stay. Carefully she laid her hand back in her lap. “When will you go?”
“It’s going to take a little time.” He straightened and glanced around the cabin. “I need to do some repairs on the body of the ship. There are a lot of calculations that have to be done.”
“I’d like to help you.” She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “I don’t know how.”
“I’d like you to stay while I’m working. I know you’ve got a lot to do, but if you could spare a few hours?”
“Sure.” She dug up a smile. “I don’t get many offers to spend the day in a spaceship.” But she couldn’t sit beside him at that moment. If he looked at her too closely he might see what she had just discovered: when he left he would break her heart. “Can I look around?”
“All you want.” She was still pale, he noted, but her voice was strong. Perhaps, like him, she needed some time alone. “I’d like to get the computer started on some calculations.”
She left him to it, trying not to jolt when automatic doors whispered open at her approach. She entered what seemed to be a small lounge. A pair of couches were built into the walls, curving back, then out, with bright orange cushions. A table of what appeared to be Lucite was bolted to the floor. There were a few glossy informational sheets tossed around. The future’s version of Car and Driver, she thought with a nervous laugh as she chose one. She tapped it absently against her thigh as she wandered around the room.
She was a sensible woman, Libby told herself. A sensible woman accepted what couldn’t be denied. But—
There were no buts. She was a scientist. One who studied man. For the time being, she would study what man would be rather than what he had been.
For an hour she walked through the ship, observing, absorbing. There was a narrow, untidy room she took to be the galley. There was no stove, only a wall unit that resembled a microwave. A refrigerator of sorts held a few bottles. The labels were a familiar red, white and blue and carried the name of a popular brand of American beer.
Man hadn’t changed that much, Libby decided. She chose an equally familiar brand of soft drink and twisted off the cap. She took a first experimental sip. Amazing, she thought as she took another. She might have found the bottle in her own refrigerator. Taking the bottle and its comforting familiarity with her, she wandered on.
She found herself in an enormous bay area. It was empty except for a huddle of boxes strapped into a corner.
He’d said he’d just made a supply run, she remembered. To Mars. When her stomach fluttered, she took another sip from the bottle.
So man had conquered Mars. Even in the twentieth century, scientists had been making plans to do so. She would have to ask Cal when the first colony had been built and how the colonists had been chosen. Slowly she rubbed her fingers against her temple. Perhaps in a day or two this would all seem less fantastic. Then she would begin to think logically and ask appropriate questions.
She continued through the ship. There was a second level that seemed to be comprised almost completely of bedrooms. Cabins, Libby corrected automatically. On ships they were called cabins.
The furniture was streamlined, and most of it was built directly into the wall. Smooth formed plastic and bright colors were the style.
She found Cal’s almost by accident. She didn’t want to admit she’d been looking. There was little difference between his and the other cabins, other than its homey untidiness. She saw a jumpsuit, similar to the one he’d been wearing when she’d found him, tossed in a corner. The bed was unmade. On the wall was a picture, eerily three-dimensional, of Cal standing with a group of people.
The dwelling behind them was multileveled and almost entirely glass. There were white terraces jutting out at all angles, and there were tall, shady trees on a green lawn.
This was his home, she thought, certain of it. And his family. She studied them again. The woman was tall and striking and appeared much too young to be his mother. A sister? she wondered, but then she remembered that he had spoken of only one brother.
They were all laughing. Cal had his arm slung around the shoulder of another man. The height and build were similar, and there was enough facial resemblance to make her certain that this was Cal’s brother. His eyes were green, and even in the photograph they were uneasily piercing. A tough
customer, she decided and shifted her attention to the third man in the photo.
He seemed slightly befuddled. His face wasn’t as blatantly handsome, but there was kindness in it.
Trapped in time, she mused. That was what a photograph did. It trapped people in time. Just as Cal was trapped now. She lifted a hand, but she caught herself just before she stroked the image of his face.
It was important to remember that he was only here until he could break free. He had another life, in another world. What she was feeling about him, for him, was impossible. Just as impossible, she thought as she pressed the cool bottle to her brow, as the fact that she was standing in a vehicle designed to travel through space.
Abruptly weary, she sat down on the bed. It was crazy, all of it. And the craziest part of all was that she had fallen in love for the first time in her life. And the man she loved would soon be far beyond her reach. With a sigh, she stretched out on the slick, cool sheets. Perhaps it was all a dream after all.
He found her there more than an hour later, curled up on his bed. She was sleeping, as she had been the first time he remembered seeing her. It brought him an odd, unsettling feeling to watch her now.
She was lovely, but it was no longer her beauty that drew him. There was a sweetness about her, a combination of compassion and shyness. She had strength and passion. And innocence—an incredibly alluring innocence. He wanted to go to her now, to gather her up and make love with her in the softest, gentlest way he knew.
But she wasn’t for him. He wished it could be like a fairy tale, wished she could go on sleeping for a hundred years, for two hundred and more, until he awakened her and claimed her for his own.
He wasn’t a prince, he reminded himself. He was just an ordinary man caught in an extraordinary situation.
Moving quietly, he crossed to the bed to draw the sheet over her. She stirred, murmured. Unable to resist, he reached down to stroke her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Cal. I had the strangest dream.” Then she was awake and pushing herself up to stare around the cabin. “Not a dream.”